Every summer, hundreds of ultrarunners line up in Olympic Valley, California, ready to test their limits on one of the most iconic trails in the world — the Western States Endurance Run (WSER). For many, this race is the pinnacle of achievement: 100 miles of grit, beauty, and endurance through the Sierra Nevada.
But before it was a racecourse, before it was gold rush country, and long before it became an endurance dream, this land had a story — one that began thousands of years earlier, carried by the Indigenous peoples who have called it home since time immemorial.
The Original Stewards of the Land
The Western States course travels through the ancestral homelands of the Nisenan, Maidu, and Washoe peoples — communities who lived, traded, hunted, and thrived here long before there was a finish line in Auburn or aid stations in Foresthill.
For them, these mountains weren’t something to “conquer.” They were kin — alive, sacred, and sustaining. Their relationship with the land wasn’t built on sport or competition, but on reciprocity, stewardship, and survival.
Recognizing this history doesn’t take away from the accomplishment of running Western States. It deepens it.
Nisenan
The Nisenan are Indigenous to the Sierra Nevada foothills and the American River watershed — land that now holds the early miles of the WSER course. Their traditional territory stretched through what’s now Placer and Nevada counties.
The California Gold Rush — the very event that gave rise to many of the trails WSER runners traverse — nearly destroyed the Nisenan people. Colonization, violence, and displacement stripped them of land and federal recognition.
But the Nisenan remain. Their cultural revival continues today through organizations like the Nevada City Rancheria Nisenan Tribe, which works to reclaim heritage, language, and visibility. The next time you cross the American River, remember: this isn’t just “race terrain.” It’s a living homeland still waiting to be restored to its rightful caretakers.
Maidu
Further north, the Maidu traditionally lived in the Sierra Nevada and Sacramento Valley. Known for their deep environmental knowledge, they were hunters, gatherers, and master basket weavers who used fire as a tool for ecosystem health — long before it was called “land management.”
The Gold Rush and settler expansion devastated the Maidu people, forcing many into servitude and erasing vast portions of their traditional lands. Yet their descendants still carry that legacy today, preserving their language, ceremony, and crafts as acts of resistance and reclamation.
When runners pass through these forests, they’re crossing landscapes once tended by Maidu hands — lands shaped not by neglect, but by intentional care and balance.
Washoe
The Washoe people are the original inhabitants of the Lake Tahoe Basin and the eastern Sierra. For generations, they moved seasonally through these mountains, following food sources and maintaining a sustainable rhythm with the land.
Settler encroachment and tourism pushed the Washoe out of their high-elevation territories, cutting them off from the spiritual and practical heart of their culture. Yet they’ve persisted, continuing to advocate for land rights and conservation through groups like the Washoe Tribe of Nevada and California.
For runners who train or race near Lake Tahoe, acknowledging this lineage isn’t about guilt — it’s about gratitude. It’s remembering that your “trail adventure” exists because of a long legacy of stewardship.
Why This History Matters for Runners
Runners love to talk about connection to nature. We say things like “the trails are my church,” or “the mountains are my playground.” But the language we use reveals a lot about our assumptions.
Calling these lands “our playground” is not neutral. It reinforces a colonial mindset — one that treats land as property, recreation space, or a personal achievement venue, rather than as the living, storied ground it truly is.
The truth is, running through these places is not a right. It’s a privilege — one that exists because Indigenous people were displaced, their access restricted, and their histories erased to make way for the kind of “public lands” we now enjoy.
That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t run them. It means you should run them consciously.
Being a good steward of the trails isn’t just about packing out trash or avoiding erosion. It’s about understanding the full context of the spaces you move through — the beauty and the pain, the history and the hope.
Reframing Stewardship: What Runners Can Actually Do
Acknowledging the past is only the beginning. Here’s how you can move from awareness to meaningful action:
Learn Whose Land You’re On
Use tools like Native Land Digital to find the Indigenous territories beneath your favorite routes. Learn the names of the peoples connected to those places and how they’re working to preserve their culture today.
Use Land Acknowledgments Thoughtfully
If you write, speak, or post about your runs, include land acknowledgments — but make them real. A sentence that says, “I ran through the ancestral lands of the Washoe people” holds more truth than “I crushed 20 miles in Tahoe.”
Support Native-Led Organizations
Donate, volunteer, or amplify Indigenous voices doing land, language, and cultural work. In the WSER region, that includes the Nisenan, Maidu, and Washoe communities.
Challenge Language in the Running Community
Encourage your peers, brands, and race directors to think about how they describe land. Words like “untouched,” “wild,” or “discovered” erase Indigenous presence.
Advocate for Representation
Push for Indigenous athletes, storytellers, and historians to have visible roles in events like Western States — not as an afterthought, but as integral voices in the race’s narrative.
The Future of Trail Running Depends on Remembering Its Past
Western States is a celebration of endurance, but it’s also a symbol of transformation — how humans and land continually shape one another. To honor that spirit fully, the ultrarunning community must reckon with the deeper story beneath its feet.
As runners, we talk about “feeling the history in the dirt.” It’s time to know whose footprints made that dirt sacred in the first place.
So the next time you climb up toward Escarpment, pause. Look out at the ridgelines. Feel the wind. Know that you’re standing in a place layered with thousands of years of memory, resilience, and belonging.
The land remembers. The question is — will we?